


Swim in Ink

by voleuse



Category: Houdini & Doyle (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-15
Updated: 2016-12-15
Packaged: 2018-09-08 20:42:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8860312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voleuse/pseuds/voleuse
Summary: Believe in alas. Believe in mourning and a proper afterlife.Death brings us to a liminal space.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Northern_Star](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Northern_Star/gifts).



> Set immediately after the series finale.

i.  
It was just past dawn, and he found Houdini sitting on the deck, shivering in the fog. “I didn’t think you were the sort for an early morning constitutional,” he said, then paused. Houdini had his hands tucked underneath his arms, and his ears were flushed an almost-bright red. “Have you been out here all night?” 

Houdini’s lips curled up as he breathed out a “ha,” but the shivers became more pronounced.

For a second, Doyle considered shrugging off his coat, then spotted a heavy woolen blanket draped over a nearby chair. “Is this preparation for another one of your stunts?” he asked, trying to imbue his voice with a bit of scorn. “I can’t say I recommend it.” He shook the blanket out, finding the cloth only slightly damp, then briskly slid it around Houdini’s shoulders.

“You know how it is, Doc,” Houdini said, his teeth chattering only slightly. “Can’t let the audience get bored with the old tricks.”

“Yes, I’m sure hypothermia is quite entertaining,” Doyle remarked. He looked around for a steward, without luck. “Perhaps we should find some tea?”

Houdini stood, slowly. He wavered on his feet, and Doyle’s hand twitched up before he caught himself. “Coffee,” Houdini said. He tugged the blanket closer around his shoulders. “And bacon.”

“And bacon.” Doyle guided Houdini into the first open door he saw, which turned out to be a parlor only slightly smelling of dog. “I’ll fetch a steward.” Houdini only nodded before slumping onto a chaise lounge.

It was only half a minute before Doyle found one of the crew, and a minute more to argue him into filching a plate from the--apparently quite formidable--kitchen staff. He may have said something about allowing foolhardy passengers to accidentally freeze to death on the deck, and this certainly wasn’t the sort of treatment he, a well-known author, or a celebrity like Harry Houdini had expected of this particular ship, _especially_ since they had just saved the life of the President of the United States, and perhaps he’d like to see the signed letter of thanks with its very, very impressive-looking seal?

Houdini was smirking when Doyle returned to the parlor. “Apparently I’ve been on your good side this entire time.” His lips were slightly less blue. “I had no idea.”

Doyle sighed. “I was rather stern, wasn’t I?”

“When we get back to London, I’m telling Kingsley he’d better keep his nose clean.” A maid entered the room, bearing two blankets and a nervous-looking smile. Houdini tugged the wool blanket off his shoulders and made the exchange. “Thank you,” he said to the woman, who bobbed her head at them both before exiting the room. Houdini looked up at Doyle, who was starting to feel a bit fretful. “Sit down, Doc,” Houdini said.

Doyle took a step forward, then back again. He set his hands on his hips, twice, then tried folding his arms instead. “What were you,” he began, then paused. “What happened?”

Houdini looked past Doyle’s left shoulder, then down to his hands. “You don’t see her, do you.” The end of the sentence curved down, belying the inquiry. 

Doyle saw, then, the slip of paper in Houdini’s hands. _If you can read this, you are not dreaming._

His head twitched left. He did not look.

ii.  
The ship’s library was larger than Adelaide expected, and the furniture faintly smelled of tobacco, rather than saltwater. It was mid-morning, though, and the cigar-smokers of the previous night had long departed. Aside from a powdered matron at the desk in the corner--her dignity only slightly diminished by the snores that ruffled the pages of the book still upright in her hands--she was alone.

Adelaide lifted her hand, blindly running her fingertips over the bumpy spines on the shelf in front of her. They felt the same: rough canvas-like cloth, for the most part, interrupted by occasional smooth dips of gilt and leather. She counted to ten, to twenty, then backwards again, before she eased one book from its regiment. She pulled it close to her chest without glancing at it; retreated from the shelf until the backs of her legs bumped into a chair. She sat, and the cloth sighed against her skirts.

Light streamed weakly into the room from a high window. The rumble of the ship was answered by the rush of the waves. She opened the book, but couldn’t manage to look at it.

“Adelaide? Are you all right?”

She blinked. The light through the window was bright, and her fingers ached where they clamped around the book in her hands. Doyle was peering down at her, the tilt of his eyebrows signaling his concern. “Yes,” she said. “I’m fine. I must have drifted off.” She looked around; Houdini had replaced the woman in the corner.

“Doc was clucking more than a mother hen when we came in.” He fidgeted with the blanket draped over his shoulders. “Hope you were someplace nice. Or,” he cleared his throat. “Well. Someplace.”

“Yes,” Adelaide said. The book she was holding was written in Italian. She shut it decisively, then rose, strode back to return it to its place on the bookshelf. When she turned around again, Houdini looked more concerned, and Doyle, less. “Is the swaddling preparation for another show?” she asked. “It seems a step down from straitjackets and chains.”

Houdini laughed. “I didn’t realize the two of you thought so highly of my work ethic,” he replied. “I’m flattered.”

Adelaide looked over to Doyle, watching as exasperation flooded over the worry in his expression. “Apparently no one ever explained to him that the ocean is rather cold at night,” Doyle said. 

“What?” Adelaide looked back and forth between the two men. “He didn’t, you didn’t actually--”

“Go for a midnight swim?” Houdini said. “No, but that would definitely be a show-stopper.” Then he looked over at the door. Something flickered in his eyes, and she watched him choke back the rest of his retort.

“Houdini,” Doyle said, but Houdini shook his head, sharply.

“Not now,” he said, less sharply than Adelaide would have expected. He stood, wobbling only slightly as the blanket caught under his foot. “We need to find Adelaide a new book to carry around.”

Adelaide ducked her head. “It’s not--”

Doyle touched her shoulder, briefly. “Of course it’s not. But,” he said, his voice gaining a bit of showman’s bravado, “he does need something to keep him occupied.”

Houdini turned to glower, and Doyle clasped his hands behind his back and shrugged. Adelaide smiled. “There is that, yes,” she said. 

“You don’t really speak Italian, do you?” Houdini asked, then tossed the blanket over his shoulder with a flourish. 

“Ever the showman,” Doyle muttered. Adelaide laughed, finally, and after a quick glare, Houdini did, too.

**Author's Note:**

> Title and summary adapted from Jo Shapcott’s “The Black Page.”


End file.
